I awoke nervous. Today was the big day. Today I would make my debut as a magician in front of a live audience of strangers. These wouldn’t be my friends who would tell me how good no matter how terrible it was. This was my debut, and I had only to wait till the evening.
Manju was up early. Tea was served and breakfast insisted upon. Cindy awoke with me and we agreed on light toast and tea breakfast.
Then the power died. My cooling air disappeared.
We stepped outside to catch whatever breezes may blow our way. There was no rain to play in so we just stood around talking.
Suddenly Sanjay was hit with an idea. Lets look at the town from the roof. He took us up the staps that separated part of his house from the neighbors. The neighbors welcomed us into their house. Introductions were made. Food and drink were insisted upon, but we had just ate. We declined as Sanjay showed us the way to the roof. Their, in a patio built on the top of the third story home, we looked around and could see the dust shrouded city of Ludhiana.
When I graduated highschool I drove out to the cliffs overlooking my home town of Pacific Mo. Pacific’s main industry was the mining of limestone. There were a couple large cliffs that overlook the whole town. I climbed up those cliffs and looked out over the town I was graduating out of….and was disappointed in its drabness.
I felt a similar sensation here. Looking out over the city of Luhdiana all I could see was smoke and haze, windblown dust and three or four proudly pointed out manufacturing plants (one being a brewery). It was a work town. It was strong and growing and dirty.
The breeze up there was cooler than on the street, and there were shadows from overhead awnings that tried to keep everyone cool. We talked up there for a several minutes, finally agreeing to accept a cup of lemonade.
Manju called us down, the electricity had returned. She was a bit insistant. I was getting over warm so I made my good-byes and headed down. Sanjay, hearing his wife’s voice, followed. They insisted Cindy stay for a while. Trapped, she stayed.
When we got back to the house Manju had a loud talk to Sanjay. The neighbors, who’s roof we had honored with our visit, were not her friends. They had spread mean rumors about Manju being lazy, and spread them to Usha, Sanjay’s mother. Sanjay’s home was a pleasant and peaceful one. Some people can’t stand that in others, and work to break that peace. These neighbors were apparently like that. Manju was insistant that we not honor them with our visit. They didn’t deserve it.
She sent word that Cindy had a phone call, in order to save her from these neighbors. In truth, I couldn’t tell whether they were good or bad people. They were uninformed, trying to give us tap water to drink, not believing our need for only bottled water.
This whole scene seemed so universal, so Lovelock-ian.
Checking the time, Sanjay got up to get the kids. Madnan and the kids should be arriving at the station soon. They’d need a ride home.
While he was out Manju went back to cleaning the house. There was nothing for Cindy and I to do but sit inside and relax. Cindy took a quick bath. I went to where our bubbles were brewing and checked them out.
I left out the bubbles from the previous days.
When Cindy was here last she brought some bubbles to blow. The kids loved them. This time she wanted to bring a lot of bubbles. I had the brilliant idea of making them instead. I found the recipe on the internet. Take 1 gallon of water, 2/3rds cup of Joy or Ivory dish soap, and 3 tsp of glycerine. Mix and let set overnight. We bought the glycerin and brought it with us. We tested the formula at home and it works. What could go wrong?
Well, they did not have Joy or Ivory dish soap. What I used may have had different properties. India also does not have gallons, cups, or teaspoons. They are metric. Doh. I did the best I could, measuring by memory. Thursday, five hours before the show, I got out my concoction and a bubble wand and discovered---nothing.
The soap had made only suds, no bubbles.
I added more glycerine. I mixed. I added everything I could thing of and then some.
Suds.
Well, there would be no bubbles in the magic show today.
Around noon they arrived. Sanjay returned, much to much barking by Simba. With him was Madnan and the kids. The young girl, twelve years old, was Neeru. The young boy, just turning five, was Ishu. Usha, grandma, had staid with her daughter to help her take care of some problems.
Neeru was shy. She ran to her mother and gave her a big hug, then tried to hide behind her. Ishu was tired and shy too. He sat by Sanjay, away from Cindy and me. Madnan was not shy. He pulled out a beaded hat and gave it to me. This, he said, was Usha’s gift to me. It would make me a real Indian. It was a bit tight, but I put it on.
Gifts? Isshu looked up. He had demanded a big truck. He wanted his truck. I told Cindy that now would be a good time to give out the gifts, a way to break the ice. She agreed, after lunch.
Lunch was ramen noodles. They were not special or thrilling. They were filling and good and the exact same noodles you could buy in the states. Once the dishes were cleared off we brought out our gift suitcase, and started handing things out.
In both our works Cindy and I pick up a bunch of small toys now and then. With no children of our own to give them too, they are stored until we can dump them somewhere. We dumped them here. There were paper gliders and wooden blocks and pencils and other small things that the kids loved. There were other gifts for Sanja and Madlan. Cindy had the bags she had made/was making for Manju and Osha. Everyone was happy accept Isshu. He did not get his truck.
Cindy smiled, “Well. I had it here a while ago. Where could it have gone?”
Isshu jumped up and started searching the whole house. We spent a good half hour talking and watching him search. He climbed up and down and under everywhere. However, he didn’t climb on mommies and daddies bed. The truck was hidden on a shelf above the bed. Finally, Cindy could handle it no more, and gave it to him.
We were called over to the neighbors for a bit, the good neighbors with the big bed everyone sat on. We arrived and discovered a traveling cloth salesman was sitting there offering a wide selection of colors to choose from.
We were asked to pick. I am a man who enjoys wearing blue tee-shirts and blue-jeans. I rarely have my hair combed, and occasionally have my pockets sticking out. I have no fashion sense.
Cindy immiediately asked my opinion. What do I know of womens clothes.
I spent about an hour in there helping her sort cloth. I then took my leave and returned to the cooler home of Sanjay. By now the kids were playing with their toys. I picked up some of the wooden blocks and put them in the back of Ishuu’s truck. His eyes lit up. He spent the next three days stacking the blocks in the truck, wheeling it around, and uncermonially dumping them all over the floor.
Cindy came rushing into the house several times, muttering about being a dressup doll again. This time, the neighbors were arranging something, and Cindy wasn’t sure what it was, except they needed her measurements. They needed mine too.
Four o’clock rolled around. The magic show was scheduled for seven. I pulled out my tricks and began rehearsing, much to the delight of Isshu. Neehru was in the other house, crotcheting Cindy’s bag, and helping the neighbor ladies with their plots.
By five, Cindy returned. Sanjay ran out and bought more soda, and this time he brought back some chips. I have a weakness for sour-cream and onion lays chips in their bright green and white bag. Sanjay returned with regular Lays chips and some in a green and white bag. They were called Lay’s Mansala chips.
I took one bite and decided that they could sell in the US. People in the US like things so hot that their tongues melt into the roof of their mouths, don’t we? These were the hottest spicy chips I ever tasted.
Unfortunately with all the sweating I had been doing, my body craved salt. I ate them. I was burned. I ate more.
At six Sanjay and Madan left to go down to the dairy and set everything up. I was getting nervous. They suggested I head down around 6:30, so I went and changed.
What does a magician wear? I pulled out one of the Pajama sets Amit had given me. It was a dark Maroon top with two deep pockets. It fit well. To this I added my sandals and the cap Madan had brought me. I was set.
When I stepped back into the main room (the only separations between where I changed and the rest of the house was a set of curtains.) a small group was already forming. They were impressed. I looked good.
I grabbed my bag of tricks and sat down. Cindy began making balloons for the kids. We figured we would hand them out after the show. Blowing up twenty balloons to be twisted into animals was no big deal.
By seven they still had me wait. They mentioned something about electrical problems.
Finally it was time to go. Everyone wanted to make sure I was not over heated. I wasn’t. I was not worried either. This would be easy as long as I had fun with it. Besides, I love attention and I love kids. Now that the evening had arrived and the heat was gone I was not worried.
Besides, I looked good.
We entered the dairy and were met by about sixty kids and thirty parents.
So much for a small show.
Madan was to be my interpreter. He gave a flowery speech of welcome. I then shot a baloon across the audience and yelled “Hello.”
The rest of the show flew. I won’t tell you about my tricks. They aren’t that noteworthy. The rope trick went over well. My magic hanky holding bag did not. I threw it over my shoudler once the trick misfired, and went speeding on.
My biggest problem was that the volunteers wanted to be up there the whole time, and be the center of attention, and I couldn’t do that to all the others. (Besides, I was the center of attention.) Before long it was over.
How long?
I forgot to time my act. If it went half an hour I could see about booking myself professionally when I got back to the states. Darn, I forgot.
I do know that Manju yelled for me to keep going. They needed me to be longer. I think that was because she and Cindy were in the side office blowing up more baloons. Our twenty were not going to satisfy this hoard.
When the show finally ended I began passing out balloon animals. The audience turned quickly into a mob. I was over run. Within moments my balloons were gone, and the crowd only grew.
Manju grabbed me and Madlan and instructed us to go home. I did so.
There I changed clothes and recuperated. Just as I got comfortable a child showed up at the door. My presence was needed back at the dairy. I had brought the balloon pump back with me.
Many kids had left balloonless. I ran back to the dairy in civilian clothes, and helped pump balloons. Snap. The balloon pump broke. No more balloons. Sure, I could have blown up a balloon without the pump. But by three balloons I would have been in a coma. No more balloons, people went home.
Then came a few neighbors and friends asking for photos with the magician/foreigner. Cindy joined us. Finally, we were done and cleaning up when the workers started going back to taking care of the cows. Cindy couldn’t let them leave. She had made them balloon animals already. Now we had our pictures taken with them. They smiled widely with their toothless grins. I don’t believe many people like them as part of their community, but Cindy and I have a very wide view of community.
We returned to the house and were met several times by kids wanting balloons. With the pump broke there was nothing we could do for them. We sat in the cool house and waited for the neighbors to come by. By 10pm the kids were sleeping in our arms. We made their bed by removing the coffee table and pushing the two couches together. Cindy and I took the big bed, they took the small one.
Then the power went off. Once again we went outside to the cool night air until it camp back on. When it did, it was late. Worse, they asked if we could do without the cooler. The electricty for next door did not come back on. Next door, on the bottom floor of the “bad” neighbors, lived a widow. Her only means of sustenance was by sewing and knitting. She had an order that needed to be finished so she had to work all night. She asked to be plugged into Sanjay’s house. He could not refuse, but it took to much power to keep her sewing machine and the cooler running all night.
Overall it had been a good day. I had done a good show. Everyone loved it, or were too polite to say otherwise. What I loved more was that there was only Friday and Saturday left to my stay in Luhdiana. Then I would return for a day to the comfort of Dehli. Then home, to English speaking TV, air conditioned rooms, and music I could almost understand. I went to sleep happy that night.
Posts: 11895 | Registered: Apr 2002
| IP: Logged |
Its official. I am crazy. Day 13, Friday June 27th, 2003
I awoke early on Friday. Madlan got up early to service the various shrines that were in or around the house. Fresh water and milk were poured to the the shrine by the tree in the courtyard, in the house, and one scraggly tree growing along the wall outside the courtyard. This was completed with an ongoing chant and the occasional bark from Simba.
Madlan believed the dog should be outside until the heat of the day got too much. Simba believed his place was in the home where it was cool. Their disagreement, while loud, was quickly over in Madlan’s favor.
I had been thinking about Simba, and about his habit of snapping at people and kids. Especially I remember the way he would grab and bite at Sanjay’s show when Sanjay was disaplining him. I talked this over with Cindy.
Simba had no chew toys. He had nothing on which to bite and clean his teeth. We had brought three extra frisbees we had collected. I suggested that Simba should be given a frisbee. Cindy had another idea, and said she would talk to Sanjay.
I went outside to enjoy the cool weather, and to pamper Simba a bit. The kids were still asleep. By now Madlan was finished with his rituals and joined me.
“Lets take a walk,” he said.
It was still cool morning, and I knew from past experience that a walk usually meant to the cricket field and back, about half a mile each way. That would be no problem.
During our walk Madlan began speaking to me about religion and politics and mostly, what were our plans for returning. He wants us to visit for months at a time, preferably in winter when the weather is nicer. How can I tell him that I am counting down the hours until I leave, that while I’m walking with him I’m thinking “This is one hour down until I am back in MY HOUSE.”
We did indeed walk to the Crickette fields. Then we headed further east. We passed the wealthier neighborhood. To my right, between the road we were walking on and the dairy, one of the houses was getting all decked out for a party. Madlan didn’t notice, busy trying to avoid puddles from last nights rain.
We then entered the poorer section of town. Here were the wanderers, the folks who live in tin sheds and mud huts. Here Madlan complained of lack of desire, lack of eductation and worse, the want for education. Here I found three small huts offering STD’s.
Madlan explaind the idea of three types of people. There were the Enlightened, the Seekers, and those in the dark. Those in the dark were people satisfied with their spiritual ignorance, and who sought nothing more, nothing deeper. He claimed that most of those in this slum were “Those in the dark” and worse, they sought to raise their children without the desire for seeking the light.
The Seekers were like him and me. We seek to know the truth.
The Enlightened were the Guru’s and teachers who’s books Madlan had in plenty, and which he loaned me.
We turned south, into some old farm fields now sprouting new homes. Here we discussed politics. He did not understand our war on Iraq. It was not much of a discusion, since I remained silent. Never argue politics with your host, or with elderly men who carried walking sticks. Either way will get you booted.
This was the only time during my whole trip that the fear everyone else had about negative reaction to the Iraq war came close to popping up. Here is a hint, unless excited by professional instigators, most people around the world are too busy scratching a living to care about US foreign policy—especially if it doesn’t relate to them.
A young lady drove by us on a scooter. Women rarely drive in India. I noticed this because she was possibly the first woman driver I saw.
We continued to talk, mostly of the future, and not very positively.
The woman came by us again. Apparently she was just learning to ride the scooter. To avoid us she took a corner very wide, and fell over in a ditch. Gallantly I did not hesitate to help her up. Madlan also was there. She spoke no English, and was slightly scared to have a foreigner help her. She made some quick apologies to Madlan, while her father came running from his house half a block away. She was fine, but startled. I thought it would be best for us to leave before dad showed up.
I didn’t think her father would complain about us helping the young lady, even a strange man. In fact he probably would have been overflowing with praise and offered us food and hospitality. I was ready to go back to the house, not stay out too much longer.
We ended up by the back entrance to the dairy. We finished our walk with a few people congratulating me on the performance the night before. Madlan smiled. “You have made me a celbrity,” he said, for as my interpreter, some of the magician’s fame rubbed off. “They want to know when you will come back and do a new show?”
I want to go home first.
We were stopped by one child begging for a balloon animal. I tried to explain that the pump was dead. “Nonsense,” said Madlan. “I’ll fix it.” He then went looking for the tools to fix the pump while I grabbed a chair. We had made it back to the house and I was ready to rest.
Cindy had not been idle while I was out walking. She had discussed Simba’s chewing problem with Sanjay. They had dug up an old piece of a 2”x4” from a construction site and handed it to Simba.
He was happilly turing it into a wide assortment of toothpicks. Whenever Simba started getting bored, one of us would move the board a bit, and he’d attack it with renewed gusto.
It was fun and relaxing.
Rest was interupted by a scambled egg and tea breakfast. It was good. Then the electricity died and we went back outside.
Thinking about the frisbee’s for Simba had gotten me in the mood to play. It had stormed the night before, so it was still cool out. I dug out a frisbee. Neeru and I started tossing it around. She had never played with a frisbee before, but soon caught on.
Cindy joined us when I tossed it to her unexpectedly. Sanjay joined us when Neeru tossed it to him. Manju was talking with the women next door when she saw us playing. She walked over and had a look of a child wanting to join in on the game, but had been told too many times she wasn’t wanted.
Before I could throw it to her Cindy did. Her smile was bright and genuine. She threw it to me.
Cindy ran back into the house and came out with the other two frisbee’s we had brought.
I tossed one into the group of ladies that Manju had been talking too. One mother of many smiled, picked it up and threw it back with a shout of joy.
Kids came out of houses and lined the small street. Ofcourse there were the boys here and the girls there but still, we threw to everyone and everyone thru it back.
We only stopped for the occasional traffic, or to climb a wall to get the frisbee out of a courtyard.
One landed on the cross street neighbor’s patio roof. Some workemen were on the house roof, but couldn’t reach it. They were working on a series of safety lines to get it when one eight year old boy climbed the nearby wall, jumped onto the fragile roof, threw the frisbee off, and was back safely on the ground before anyone could stop him.
I love kids. They are direct.
After a couple hours of Frisbee playing, I was getting hot. I retreated with Ishuu to the house. Manju, who threw mainly to me and Sanjay, soon joined us. Before long the whole event broke up as the humidity decided to take over.
Madlan was ready for a walk. This time he took Cindy.
I rested. The heat decided to come back, and the rain of last night turned into a sweat bath of today. Besides, I needed a bath. Yet every time I started to take one, someone came back into the house.
Cindy returned exhausted from her walk just as Sanjay headed out to the store. We both crashed on the bed and took a nap. Since I didn’t know when Sanjay would return to translate “stay out Dan’s bathing” it was a safer bet than bathing.
Sanjay walked in about two hours later. It seems that Manju saw Cindy come back and decided that “every husband and wife need time alone together.” We slept through ours.
Sanjay brought regular chips which we had with Soda as our lunch snack. It was just to miserable outside to cook. Cindy told me to quit eating the chips. It was American food, and it was salt my sweating body lacked. I glared at her. She glared back. She won. I put the chips down.
Cindy was drug off to the neighbors for final fittings. I got to ride with Sanjay on his scooter to the nearby tailor. We passed the house that was getting decorated. There was music coming from it already. It looked like it would be a big party.
Riding on Sanjay’s scooter through and across traffic, I realized that this little scooter had a little horn, and no helmet. We were almost the lowest of the traffic heirarchy. It reminded me why I enjoyed staying safely at Sanjay’s instead of driving around India.
There was one final thing to work out before we went back to Dehli. Cindy was going to stay a few more weeks in India than I was. She works for a school and has two whole months off in the summer. She was going to come with me to Dehli and see me off on my plane, then return alone the next day. After the theft of our luggage on the way here, Sanjay wanted to escort her. He even bought a ticket. The problem was that would require him to spend two nights at Amit’s house. We never asked Amit if this was OK.
How do you ask a friend if another, of a different class, can spend the night in your already overcrowded home? The easy answer—ask Cindy to do it. Nobody could deny her smile anything.
Unfortunately, between the long walk and the night before yelling over the crowd, Cindy’s voice was giving out on her. She needed that nap for more than one reason.
Cindy tried calling Amit several times on her cell phone. Unfortunately they kept missing each other. Cindy also wanted this to be a private conversation in case there were problems. She couldn’t work it out.
Sanjay’s phone could accept long distance calls, but could not make them. For that we needed to take a walk to the nearby STD booth. I had seen these booths since I landed. I had guessed that STD did not stand for Sexually Transimitted Disease. Now I got to use one. It was Standard Telephonic Device. Imagine a digital counter and credit card reader attached to a phone. As long as you were on the phone, it kept a running total. When it was done it either printed out a reciept to be paid on the way out, or it charged your credit card. It was the pay phone of the 21st century.
It was not really that big a deal, come to think of it. It was, however, a cheap way for anyone with a phone to make some extra cash.
I called, because Cindy couldn’t talk. Sanjay showed me how (there went any attempt at secrecy). Amit loved the idea of Sanjay joining us. He too was worried about us and the train. They would squeeze him in somewhere, and refused any idea of us putting him up in a hotel.
We returned to the house for dinner. I was thrilled. One more day, twenty four hours, and I ‘d be leaving this steam over called Luhdiana. I’d be leaving a lot of good people, people who cared for me, but I didn’t care.
Before dinner I took my bath. I put on my swimming trunks and took over the cleaning area. Everyone was nice enough to stay in the living room, closing the curtain between us. The cold water felt good, but so did the lack of personal odor.
By the time I changed into some relatively clean clothes Cindy was sitting between Sanjay and Madlan, as Madlan read her palm. He was finishing up. I didn’t hear much. Just that she was bright and caring and obviously a born India native who was stuck in America.
Madlan’s family comes from a long line of priests, so he has an extensive knowledge in Astronomy and similar divinational techniques. You could spend $50 per hour and not get as thorough a reading as he was offering.
He asked if I wanted my palm read.
I smiled and handed it to him.
He looked for only a minute, then with a worried look on his face he stuttered out, “um Dan, you are crazy.” He was serious.
Sanjay, also trained in this art, took my hand to confirm his father’s finding.
If you look at your palm you will see many lines that run across it. Each of those lines represent part of your destiny or personality. Those lines are made up of one thick line, or two or three smaller lines.
The lines in my palm are a series of multiple crisscrossing smaller lines. Each smaller line represents a different train of thought, personality type, action. I am made up of a bunch of smaller me’s. Can you say Schizophenia? I want to do everything, but finish nothing. (even this recap of my vacation is over a month old, and I still haven’t finished it.)
We sat down to dinner of standard Indian food. This was insisted upon by Madlan. He knew that we would love the spicy strange food the moment we ate it, because “Its all good. Its all Indian.” He so much wants us to move to India, which is where, he is sure, we belong.
Then we got up to go visit the neighbors. This was a trip that Sanjay insisted on. We headed back to the dairy, then made a sharp left.
We passed the party house, which was going full swing now that the sun had set.
We crossed into the wealthy neighborhood and came to the wealthiest man in the area. He was the same man I met a few days ago running the dairy. He had a beautiful airconditioned house, with artwork crafted by the hands of his own daughter. There was marble floors and modern furniture and a fast computer. It was very nice.
We went into the bedroom and all sprawled out on the bed. In the US, if you tried to invite strangers to sprawl out on your bed, they would imagine it was “one of THOSE parties.” In India, the bed being the biggest piece of furniture, it was only natural for people go gather there and talk.
We sat and talked. Before long the women got up, and Cindy followed. They were bringing us food, of course. While they were getting some chips and crackers, cookies and icecream together, our host invited Sanjay and I to his computer.
He had a question on an Excel spreadsheet. Sanjay used one at the office and was being asked if he could fix it. He didn’t know how. I knew. I knew to get the expert. I called in Cindy.
The fact that a woman would know the program more than us three men was a bit confusing to our host. Cindy soon showed him that she did know it better. Soon she was at the computer trying all of her tricks.
The rest of the women came in and gave us the food. Cindy sat down to nibble, then jumped up with a possible solution for the computer problem. It was a puzzle that now would eat at her until she figured it out.
Alas, she did not figure it out that night, and it still may be eating at her for all I know.
We soon left. They escorted us out, making us promise that the next time we visited we would spend more time with them.
Looking at all the houses in this neighborhood I was far from impressed with their looks. Sanjay explained it’s a tax thing. Taxes were based on the observed value of your home. If someone walking by saw a dirty, drab house, it would be listed at a much lower value than a bright clean fancy home.
The Indian tax code discourages improving the value of India.
We were walking back when we passed the party house. The party turns out to be a wedding. The whole top floor of the building was alive with loud music and dancers. Out front decorated cars and horse drawn carriage awaited. They were having a good time. We walked to the beat of the driving music all the way home.
When we got home we turned on the TV for a bit before it was time for bed. Isshu fell asleep at my feet. Cindy said, “keep him. I’ll join Neerhu on the short couches.”
Such a sacrifice would have been noble, except the short couches were the ones with some cushioning.
I closed my eyes and thought dreamilly of the future. In twenty four hours we would be in the cooler Dehli. In Forty Eight hours I’d be on my way to the airport. If the weather held, in Seventy Two hours I’d be home. I’d be relaxing and in control. I had survived.
I slept well at first that night, happy with the way time had flown. Then the electricity went out. That happened after midnite so that we will discuss tomorrow.
Posts: 11895 | Registered: Apr 2002
| IP: Logged |
posted
My only complaint is that you didn't stay longer so you could write more of these things. I love reading them. How about chronicling your life for at least a week after you returned home? Would that be asking too much?
Posts: 519 | Registered: Oct 2001
| IP: Logged |
My wife, who has avoided getting into the quicksand of Hatrack, has been reading over this thread. She is debating about writing about our adventures from HER side. It would be much more Pro-India.
I only have two days of my adventures left. If we get a few encouraging words to her, I bet Cindy would add her bits, and become a full fledged Jatraquero to boot.
If you want to hear her point of view, comment in this thread and she'll read it.
Now, back to the story:
The first farewells Day 14, Saturday June 28th, 2003
It was impossible to sleep.
The electricity died around 2:00am. The air quit circulating in the room shortly there after. It is impossible to sleep in a room with no moving air and the temperature rising slowly into the 90’s (40’s Celsius). Sanjay got up to see if he could fix the electricity. He stepped outside and saw it was the entire block that was blacked out. He headed back to bed.
I just laid there and sweated.
Only my feet picked up any breeze, as they were at the end nearest the hallway, where a breeze went from the door, down the hall, and up to the open windows in Madlan’s room.
Heat deadens brain cells, or perhaps it was just groggy sleepiness. I tossed and suffered for a good hour before I realized that cooling my feet was useless. Cooling my face and head would allow me to sleep. Besides, Ishuu was sleeping at my feet.
I turned around, laying my head where my feet normally go. The breeze, while not what I would normally call comfortable, made sleep possible.
When Madlan got up at 5:30 to start the rituals, I got up as well. It was breezier if not cooler outside.
I sat on the curb and played with Simba while waiting for the day to begin—and End.
Even though it was Saturday, most of the neighbors had work to go to. They work a 6 day week in India, usually 50-60 hours a week. Sanjay had sacrificed his entire vacation to be with us, but the neighbors had not.
Madlan came out, carrying a couple of portable chairs. We sat under the wall in front of their house and began discussing various things, religion mostly, but India in general.
He pulled a leaf off of the tree and handed it too me. “Chew on it. It is good for the digestion and the teeth.” He began chewing on another one.
What could I do but pray it wasn’t poison ivy, and chew. Remember back in Mussorie, when I tried that strange foil covered treat? This was the same leaf that the treat was wrapped in. It had that same minty/grassy flavor.
It wasn’t bad. Then again, it wasn’t good. I chewed and began to wonder why everyone was giving me leaves to chew for digestion and teeth. Had my breath gotten that bad?
Sanjay came out shortly after, followed by Cindy. It was starting to heat up a bit, and there was still no sign of electricity. “Lets go for a walk.”
We headed down to the dairy. It was feeding time. A truck loaded to overflowing with green sugarcane leaves was being tossed into the enclosure. The cows were happy. In fact several loose cows had wandered over to get a free lunch.
Suddenly a marching band started up. The house with the party/wedding from last nigh was letting out. A parade was passing by the dairy on its way to wherever the ceremony was to be held. We were just in the right place at the right time.
First came the musicians, with young men blaring on trumpets who had no musical skill, just to add energy to the party.
Then came the groom riding a horse. Both the groom and the horse were overladen in antiquated costumes. Both looked rather depressed.
Did you ever wonder why the person marrying the woman, and the person who takes care of a horse are both called a groom? Why they sound so much like gloom? I digress.
Around the horse and rider men danced and threw money, both to the crowd and stuffed it in the clothes of the groom. People watching would run up and stuff money at the groom.
Then followed the women. Some shouted. Some started to dance a bit. Most, especially the older women were dour and restrained. They held cauldrons of coins and candies that were thrown to the crowd.
Finally there came a few cars, carrying the bride and the families. They all looked rather exhausted and happy for the AC the cars offered.
On our way back to the house we went around a block. One of the things Sanjay discussed with us was trash. India has a very limited anti-litter campaign. Trash is thrown everywhere. Finding a trashcan in a retail establishment is harder than finding a bathroom (which isn’t easy either). The result is that trash and junk litter much of the ground.
We passed the cities effort to solve this problem, a large community trash bin. However this was painted an ugly orange, and allowed to rust and become more of an eyesore than the trash littering the field. I would not like to have come near it so I understand how others would rather drop their trash on the ground than carry it anywhere near this thing.
It’s a shame. With a little care and a slight change of attitude, India has many beautiful places. Yet if people just cover everything with litter, and no one cleans it up, then the cannot see it. Nor can they have pride in their land if it is filled with trash.
I believe that a could anti-litter campaign could only improve India. Then again, they have enough problems they are working on. I saw several tv commercials against killing female babies because they are not as economical as boys. That cause may be a more important to get fund.
I tried to explain the US views on littering, when I was hit with a linguistic problem. How do you talk to people in India about Native Americans. This is a PC question for to call either group “indians” could be confusing. Some people there mentioned “Red Indians” to define Native Americans, but others were disturbed by that phrase. Is it racist in this context? Many were clueless when I said Native Americans.
We got back to Sanjay’s house and had some quick breakfast. Still there was no sign of electricity. Madlan, however, had not let the time pass unproductively. He had called his student, the one I had stayed with for a bit the first day. They had invited Cindy and I, wth Madlan, to visit.
I had time for a quick bucket bath, change of clothes, and we were off.
Before we left though, the clothes came. I knew that the neighbors had pulled their sources and arranged a collection of clothes for Cindy to take home as gifts. These would be ready when she returned with Sanjay.
What I wasn’t expecting was a large amount of clothes were bought for me. There was a shorts and t-shirt set that is very comfortable. There was a beautiful Pajama Set that is one of the finest I own. There were a few more bits and pieces, and one pastel pink button down shirt.
I was too tight. I informed them of this and they disappeared. I did not inform them that pastel pink was not my favorite color. They had done too much anyway.
We three climbed into Madlan’s student’s car and headed out to the house.
I discovered heaven.
We toured the house again, showing Cindy all the inlaid marble and giant waterfall. Then we went into the main room, and I rejoiced. There was Air Conditioning. There were padded chairs. There was, in a small room nearby, a fully functional bathroom. There was TV.
Cindy and I played ambassador for a while, talking with the family and the kids. Food was served and drinks went around to cool us off. Then we played cards.
Cindy loves card games, and I enjoy them. What we did was trade games. We taught them blackjack, war, speed. They taught us their games.
Don’t ask me for the names.
One involved dealing out all the cards, then playing them like gin, dropping straights or pairs. The last person to go out looses. One option was you could force another player to go out by usuing your turn to claim their hand and add it to your own.
I don’t remember all the rules. It was a fun game for larger groups of players.
Then two events occurred that proved I found Hatrack Heaven. One of those was false and would return to haunt Cindy and me.
They served Icecream. They turned on the TV and “The Tick” started. It was the cartoon version, of “The Tick”, you know, the one with the mustache. We had started a game of “war” when, person by person we lost and were relegated to watching TV. That’s when we relaxed and watched “The Tick.”
It was only interupted by icecream. It was a nice icecream filled with fruits and nuts. It was delicious.
After the Tick I made a quick dash to the adjoining facilities. Something in the Ice Cream didn’t agree with my stomach.
Later that day it hit me again, the only stomach problem I had the whole trip. Cindy was also affected over then next two days. It wasn’t disabilitating or painful, just inconvient and embarrasing.
It was 3:00pm by now. They had given us lunch and snacks and everyone had a good time. We met the father of the family, the owner of one of the recycling steel works. He was proud of his work and of his family. Again we were asked about kids getting work in the US. It was time to leave. My train left at 7:00pm. It would take us an hour to get to the station. We still had to pack and say our goodbyes. That meant we had to head back to Sanjay’s house, leaving the cool AC and indoor blumbing.
We were given a final tour of the house, and were forced to promise to come by next time we visited. I also took the card of the eldest son. He is going for a degree in Mineralogica Engineering. If I knew anyone needing employees in that field I promised to call.
We drove back to the house. Hurray, the electricity was back on! We had, if not AC, at least the cooler and the fans going. We also had more food waiting for us. Cindy went in back to pack while the rest of the family was busy doing other chores. I laid down to take a quick nap while waiting to go.
Don’t get me wrong. I would have helped my wife pack, but I have learned not to get in her way. She works much happier if I am not there to trip over.
One of the neighbor kids came running into the room. He started yelling excitedly about something that I couldn’t understand. Finally, he raised his arm and showed me….his fake tattoo.
“Undertaker!!” he yelled. “UNDERTAKER!!!”
“Um” I thought hard and said, “The Rock.” He smiled and ran off. I had met a Pro-Wrestling fan in India--proof of the viral like infection of the best of American culture.
Ishuu was on the couch next to me taking a nap. Manju came by, smiled at him and came back with a bottle for him to drink. This brings up a problem that had haunted us the past few days. Ishuu is five years old. He is too old to be drinking from a nippled bottle, yet he stubbornly refuses to give them up. Before Madlan had gone to pick up the kids on Tuesday he had said, “Manju has not been able to get Ishuu to give up his bottle. I bet if Dharti told him to, he would.”
Cindy (aka Dharti) liked the idea. She wanted to help in any way possible.
I noted Manju’s look when Madlan had said that. She was insulted. She was hurt. She was resentful of the idea that Cindy could do a better job of mothering her kids than she could. That day in the heat I realized that as long as Cindy was in that home, Manju would insure that Ishuu would always have his bottle.
I remembered “Lovelock”. Somethings are universal, and they aren’t always the good things.
Sanjay came back on his scooter, getting only a couple barks from the heat exhausted Simba. He called the family in, and took away Ishuu’s bottle. In his hand was a package. I opened it and there was a new, larger shirt.
This time it was pastel green, not pastel pink, and it fit. Now everyone was happy.
Cindy has us packed and ready to go by 4:30. We started saying goodbye. By 5:30 I had hugged Manju goodbye, hugged both kids, and pet Simba. It was Madlan who was going to miss us the most. He didn’t want to let go.
Everywhere, everyone was so nice. All asked the same question, “When will you come back? When?” How could I answer, “You couldn’t drag me back. When I get home I am never ever ever leaving it again.”
Instead I smiled and said “Not next year. Maybe after.”
The neighbors began lining the street to see us off. One of those previously mentioned three wheeled carts pulled up and my luggage, and two overnight bags, were loaded on.
There were tears in some eyes, and almost pleading in others. Yet in my mind was the excitement that I was going home. I felt I was betraying these good people not by leaving, but by wanting to leave. I am a bad boy.
Luckly they mistook my excitement for apprehension of returning to the scene of the crime, of getting back on the train.
First we had to get to the train, and to do so we got to travel in one of the slow three wheeled green carts I had seen since my arrival. These things are taller than a VWBeetle, but no bigger. They are a small wooden bench and a drivers seat on an aluminum pipe frame surrounded by thin tin, with open doors and glassless windows, . They are powered by highly efficient natural gas engines, which makes them a prefered taxi system. They are also slow, maybe 10 miles per hour, and have not yet incorporated the idea of shock aborbers.
Earlier I mentioned that he who had the loudest horn got the right of way. These things had no horns. That should place them on the Indian motor heirarchy for you. Even Sanjay’s scooter had a horn. I think it had more steel in its construction too.
I began to wonder how much of my trip to India had been just trying to find the worst possible way to get from one place to another. “What must be endured, will be endured.” I spent a good part of this hour long trip with my head in Cindy’s lap, my eyes closed, and a desire to close my ears as well.
We arrived at the train station with plenty of time to spare. We snuck into the “Reserved” section of the station to find a seat and wait. Ten minutes later we left. It was hotter in there than sitting on the station platform. I began counting the seconds until I would be on my way home.
The train arrived on time.
Our seats were in the front of the car. We stowed our bags carefully this time and headed off.
There is nothing to mention about this train trip. The service was good. The food was fine. The water was cool. The AC was great. It was dark outside so I napped on and off. Sanjay apologized again for his mother being unable to meet me. This was the most difficult thing for Sanjay, he felt he had disappointed both of us. I would have loved to meet her, and may someday.
The train went from 7pm to 11pm. We arrived in Dehli and Amit was waiting for us. We left the station, climbed into his small car with our bags, and went home. Amit’s father met us with a glass of whiskey. Amit’s mother met us with food. None of us stayed up much longer.
I crawled into Amit’s bed. How could this hard thing feel so soft? My back compared it to my previous bed and rejoiced. Sanjay and Amit slept on the floor in the room next door. It was 11:30pm. My plane left at just past midnite Monday morning, or just over 24 hours away. I was almost too excited to sleep.
Posts: 11895 | Registered: Apr 2002
| IP: Logged |
posted
I second Celia's comment! Please write your version, Cindy!
Dan, these stories are absolutely wonderful. I was moved by your description of Manju walking into the rain, and my favorite bit is the part about the Frisbee game. You have a gift of discernment and observation that I envy. And though you may feel fine about the loss of your photos, I'm sorry we don't get to see your pictures of Amit, the hotels, Sanjay, the children, your "magician's outfit", and all the rest, though your stories in themselves create lovely pictures.
Thank you for sharing your experience with us!!
Posts: 354 | Registered: Jul 2002
| IP: Logged |
posted
Thanks for sharing your vacation! Please Cindi, post your version, too! This has been a lot of fun to read.
Posts: 1777 | Registered: Jan 2003
| IP: Logged |
posted
Meow all. I'm new to the group and just wanted to let you know alittle about me. Actually, you already know alittle about me. I'll tell you more. I love crafts and making things with my hands, love to experience new cultures and meet new people, and married to one of the nuts that has been in this group for a long time now. He can't stop talking about all the wonderful people here and how you make him smile and laugh. My name is Cindy and I'm married to Dan_raven. For those interested, I will continue with descriptions of India, the culture and its people. I will try to do my best to give you a feeling for things the way dan did. Yes, he is correct, I do have a different view of India. India feels like a 2nd home to me. See you all soon.
Welcome, and double welcome. I am looking forward to hearing about your experiences. I've been fascinated with India - along with a host of other countries/cultures, too. I'm looking forward to hearing your side of the adventure.
Posts: 8355 | Registered: Apr 2003
| IP: Logged |
posted
Welcome, Cindy! Looking forward to your travel accounts. One thing Dan's journal has convinced me of: if I ever travel to India, it won't be in the summer. I hate heat and love A/C too much. How did you meet all these fine Indian folk on the Internet?
posted
I came across this thread by accident yesterday and have been reading all of Dan's posts on this thread since then and am just about caught up. Dan, you've got a great memory and a nice turn of phrase which leaves me smiling or laughing outright at times. Of course, some of it is the usual "oh you silly Americans" kind of thing since I'm from the region (I'm from Sri Lanka - and if anybody's asking where's that? Then it's that little tear drop at the end of India ... and no, we are not part of India!! We're a country on our own right - so there!) and I can identify with some of the things you describe though from a different perspective :-) So I'd certainly be interested to read what Cindy thought of your adventures together and her take on it. Thanks for a very enjoyable read BTW Posts: 136 | Registered: Aug 2003
| IP: Logged |
I do want to make some comments about the Photos. I do have the digital ones posted in the Hatrack album. Others, of people mentioned here, I will have digitized and added there later.
Of course those photo's can't capture Manju dancing in the rain, or the frisbee's, or the magic show, or Amit's parents saying farewell.
That is why I started writing this thread. Sure, I want to share my memories with Hatrack, but I also want to keep them. When I am finished I will cut and paste and print out the collection and store it in a binder next to my other photo albums. This is how the early travelers kept memories, not with photos but with journals.
I'm glad I've made you laugh out loud. If I get anyone crying, then I know I've done my job well.
Posts: 11895 | Registered: Apr 2002
| IP: Logged |
posted
Not Cindy's yet. Hey, it was a slow day at work today.
Final Farewells Day Fifteen, Sunday June 29th, 2003
I awoke one last time in India, as Amit’s mother tried to sneak through our room and work in the kitchen. It was alread 7am. I got up and use the glorified indoor plumbing, and cleaned myself up a bit. When I got back to the main room, Cindy was also up and getting her stuff together.
She wanted to know what I was smiling about. I whispered, “I’m going home.”
Amit and Sanjay were up as well. Amit insisted that I sleep all day because the flights home the next day would be long. I knew better. I would sleep on those flights.
With the rest of the house awake we had eggs for breakfast, along with a selection of Indian chutney’s and breads. Then we planned our day. Shopping and packing were in order until it was time to go.
We were not only shopping for ourselves. Several of Cindy’s coworkers put in orders for items they wanted. Most of those were the Sari’s and Kurhta’s that Cindy wore to work often. There was one other, a Katar. That is an ancient Indian weapon that can be described as a cross between brass knuckles and a bowie knife. Only one person from my work wanted anything. She wanted a shot glass, perferably with an interesting story behind it.
We had gotten neither of these items (but enough clothes to break fourteen international import/export agreements I believe). Amit knew just where we had to go. We also had to stop by the Dyer’s and the Tailors to fix some of the clothes they had made for us. Somebody kept making mistakes on the sizes. They were used to small Indian women, not big American women.
All four of us, Cindy, Amit, Sanjay and myself, loaded into Amit’s car and off we went. Amit, of course, knew exactly where to take us. I, surprisingly, was beginning to get used to the traffic.
The Sihk’s are known for their swords. They use the thick pladed curved scimitar of hollywood fame. Even their daggers have that curved blade. There was a Sihk shrine open to the general public, where many Sihk gifts, souveniers, and specialty products were sold in an open air market. We headed there.
On the way we passed the YWCA and the YMCA (with a big tall wall separating the two). It was a very modern complex of buildings on a nicely groomed campus. Gee, I wonder if my “All City” YMCA card would work there?
We forced our way into a parking area, then sqeezed upto the booths to look at what was offered. It was hot and in the sun. Cindy had a photocopied picture of a Katar. She quickly realized that the knives and swords shown here were not Katars. She tried to explain the difference, but Amit was having trouble understanding. Sanjay and I just sighed and headed back to the car. The other two soon followed.
Next we stopped at a small souvenier shop on one of the main streets. There were all sorts of marble elephants (for Cindy’s boss) and flexible wooden cobras (for My nephew) and other traditional India souveniers. We were only going in to check for the Katar. We came out loaded with gifts, holiday presents, and fun stuff.
We did not buy any of the water pipes, even when I mistook them for tea pots. My mother collects tea pots, and I was thinking Christmas presents.
We then went to the greater above ground India shopping district. Imagine a shopping mall, open air, stretching out across eight city blocks, with traffic driving through the middle of it.
Squeezed into the parking areas along the entire length of this shopping district were dozens of cars. This was the Greater Dehli Car Market as well as other shopping. They had both used and new cars and quick talking smooth salesmen smiling at everyone who walked by.
We found a relatively easy parking spot and began walking to Amit’s favorite glass shop. The sound of people hawking their wares was everywhere. People, seeing the color of our skin, charged us seeking to sell us maps and post cards. We looked away and walked on in.
We went two blocks to the east, then turned for 1 block to the south. There we bought the shot glass. Shot glasses are a rarity in India. The muslim population doesn’t drink anly alcohol and the Hindu population drinkd more wine than hard liquor. However, money talks. For a whopping 50 cents I would make my co-worker happy. She’d owe me big time.
We started back when I saw a luggage shop. We had two problems and one obvious solution. With our camera bag stolen, Cindy was one bag short of the allowed limit on her way back. Two, we had a pile of junk to bring home. I said it was time to replace the bag.
We left pulling an overnight bag on wheels, it was expandable and hard shelled, and cost us maybe $30. Shopping in India is sweeeeeeeeet.
As we left I was trying to think of a good story to go with the shot glass. That was all my coworker wanted. We pulled out of the shopping district and faced a 100+ foot tall orange monkey statue under construction—picture King Kong with a bad dye job, in Alladin’s monkey--Abu’s clothes.
I wish I still had the camera.
There was a monkey to remember. It was part of a shrine that was growing. The Monkey represented intelligence and wealth, so his shrine was getting rich smartly.
We arrived back at Amit’s house in time for lunch, about 2:00pm. I was ready for something American. Amit’s mother offered Macaroni and Cheese.
I jumped at it.
It did not come from the blue box. It was a platter piled high with Macaroni noodles, with an India cheese mixed in, with chunks of chicken added. It was deliscious.
There were several breads, nans, and dipping sauces, each capable of stripping the tiles off of the space shuttle. I avoided them.
Then the surprises came. Amit presented me with a present from his father. It was a set of Parker Pens. I use them to this day. Amit’s mother had had our laundry done. Cindy was worried for the last time they stained one of her favorite Khurta’s. This time everything came out OK.
Sanjay excused himself for a few minutes. He went for a walk. He had done this earlier. He smoked, but refused to impinge on anyone’s home. He only smoked out of doors. He went for a walk to enjoy his cigarette, and to find more cigarettes to buy.
I think he also felt embarrased by the gifts. He had nothing to give me. He picked up a “Magic Water Pen” from a local vendor, and gave that too me when he returned. He tried to explain the “magic” part of it. I don’t think it is Magic. There is a tube of water surrounding the ink cartridge. It looks cool, but that is all.
I then yelled at both of them. We didn’t have room for everything they had already given us. NO MORE!!!!
Everybody smiled accept Cindy and I.
I tried to take a nap then. I spent about an hour laying in the bed dreaming about being at home. I got up to find everyone playing cards Amit’s parents room. I joined them.
By 6 Cindy started packing me up one last time. I asked if I could help. She said, “Get these two away from me before I hurt someone. That is all the help I need.” The rest of us retreated into the living room to watch TV.
This was harder than it sounded, as Amit continued to surf relentlessly.
I got up and took a final bath before leaving. I wanted to travel in one of the Pajama suits, which meant the shorts and shirt I was wearing needed to be packed. The greatest difficulty occurred when I tried to decide what to wear.
I wanted to return home in a Pajama Suit. Amit had given me a good one, maroon, that I wore for my magic show. Sanjay had given me a good one, white with intricate design on it. My problem, whichever one I wore would possibly hurt the other. It might seem that I didn’t like their gift as much. I felt like I was choosing between friends, or negotiating a peace treaty between two countries.
Cindy solved my problem for me. She forgot to pack the suit Sanjay gave me. It was still at Sanjay’s house. I bathed and got dressed for my trip.
I wore my new brown sandals on my feet, the Pajama suit over the rest of me, and the hat Madlan had brought me on my head. I was dressed in Indian clothes everywhere but my underwear.
This was the first time Amit’s family had seen me in this suit. They were proud of it. Amit’s father insisted that I could be an Indian.
Cindy still had packing to arrange, so I went back into the other room and played cards and watched TV. Amit was working on his computer, getting some details on the flight, etc. This allowed the rest of us to watch a movie almost all the way through.
The bad news was, it was “The Wedding Singer.” This film was never one I wanted to spend money to see. It was light and silly, but that was about it. Its best redeeming value lay at the end of the movie.
(Warning, Spoilers of the movie coming next)
At the end of the movie the semi-innocent bride and her evil groom fly off to Vegas to get married. The hero chases after her. The only seat available is in first class. Only when they are in the air does he discover that his love and her evil groom are on the same flight.
With the help of a rock star on board, he sings the bride into his arms, and sends the evil groom into pain and discomfort.
I have flown many times. No one has ever broken into a song on a plane I’ve been on. I feel cheated.
Cindy called that she was done, just in time for dinner. I didn’t eat much. It was very Indian food, spicy and fried. I was going to spend the next day having to rely in airplane bathrooms. I even passed up the icecream offered later. However, when it was placed in my hands I ate it.
My flight left at 12:15am on Monday morning. I wanted to get there two hours early for check in. It would take an hour to get to the airport. That meant by 9pm we had to leave.
By 8:30 I couldn’t stand it anymore. I was dragging the bags down to the car. Amit grabbed them from my hands and insisted on taking them. He wouldn’t let me carry anything. When I turned around to grab the next set, Sanjay was already lugging them down the steps.
Amits mother stood there, with a small thing of sugar in her hands. She was shorter than me by a good foot, small and sinewy. She spoke no word of English, but her eyes were sad to see me go.
How could she be sad to see me go? I had eaten her food, got in her way, given her more work to do. What had I given her in exchange but a shaw for her shoulders and someone her son and husband could talk too.
Yet there was no mistaking her look. She was sad to see me go, and damn if I wasn’t sad to leave her.
I took a pinch of sugar and ate it. Why did it seem so bittersweet? I bowed.
Amit’s father was next to her. He stood tall, with a drink in his hand. “I only drink on drink a day, at this time,” he had told me once. He smiled at me. “When will you be coming back?” he asked now.
“When I can.” I said, but I didn’t mean just physically.
“Good-bye Dan, I will miss talking with you.”
“I will miss talking with you.” Damn again. I was speaking the truth. His stories of Pakistan, and the struggles that emerged during the resettlement made history come to life.
I grabbed the one remaining bag, my computer bag with the tickets and my passport, and went down the stairs to the car. Nobody would be allowed to hold that bag but me. Cindy followed.
We were packed tight in Amit’s car now. Besides the four of us there was my large hard suitcase, an overstuffed duffel bag, my overstuffed computer bag and an overnight bag overflowing with—well—stuff.
The ride too the airport was not very exciting. Perhaps I was just getting used to the traffic. Perhaps I was just excited about leaving. Perhaps it was something else. Cindy and I sat in the back holding hands. She would be staying for two more weeks. I admired her courage. I wondered about her sanity.
Amit showed Sanjay the sights as we passed. Here was the Victory Arch. Here was the Assembly Hall. Here was the home of the congressman who did this. Here is where the bomb went off. He was a happy tour guide, and Sanjay, who had only been to Dehly a handful of times, enjoyed the show.
Cindy just held my hand tightly. Perhaps I just held hers.
The airport was crowded, though mostly people awaiting arrivals. Amit took a questionable turn, and parked in an area for passenger pickup. We each grabbed a bag and headed to the airport.
Sanjay again apologized for not having me meet his mother.
It was a dark night, no stars or moon, just overhanging dust. It was a steamy night, difficult to breath. Heat was coming up off the pavement as we crossed it. It leant a surreal air to the evening.
Train stations make great settings for farewells. Airports do not. The two saying good-bye are separated only by a few inches, a foot at the most. They stare at each other while the train pull one away.
Airports, especially these days, mean you have to stand in a line for several minutes before you can be separated. Picture the romantic scene:
He: I love you. I always will. Nothing can pull us apart for long. She: I’ll be waiting for your return. I want to keep you here, but I know you must go. He: Farewell. She: Farewell.
He gathers his belongings and walks into the line. She watches him move through the line for fortyfive minutes. Finally, as he is about to go through the metal detectors, he turns, as if not wanting to go. The burly arm of the security guard shoves him through.
Not really romantic, is it.
Yet the Airport in Dehli tries to be a bit more romantic. They don’t let anyone inside who doesn’t have a ticket. There is a place for parting. There Sanjay and Amit and Cindy and I all stood.
I don’t recall what was said between us then. I really wish I did. Sanjay apologized for not doing more stuff, when I believe that by not doing stuff, I got to know them all more. Amit said goodbye, and to make sure I had all my stuff with me. We shook hands. We hugged.
There were words that we men couldn’t say to each other. I probably should have said some of them then.
I just said thanks for taking us in and for taking care of Cindy. Then I turned to Cindy.
There was a lot I wanted to say. There was a lot I wanted to show. I am not one for big public displays of affection. My family wasn’t touchers. Yet I held her and didn’t want to let go.
I wished Amit and Sanjay would turn away, would give us that appropriate moment of togetherness that people always give each other in such situations on TV. They didn’t, too intent on spending a few more moments with me.
“Becareful” she said.
“You too.” I said. Then I wheeled my cart in line for the door.
She watched me the entire time, as the family in front of me argued with the guard at the door, and the line to get into the airport stood still. Finally, it was my turn to enter. At the last moment I turned around to take one last look at Cindy watching me. The burly arm of the guard grabbed my papers and pushed me on in.
The doors closed.
Cindy was outside. Amit and Sanjay, their families were outside.
I was in the Airconditioned airport, alone, again.
Posts: 11895 | Registered: Apr 2002
| IP: Logged |
posted
The Longest Day Day 16 Monday June 31st, 2003
Lines are boring.
This day was the longest day I ever lived through, lasting about 36 hours, thanks to multiple time zones. However, much of that time was spent standing in line, so I will just glance over those as quickly as possible. Remember that at each line I had to show my ticket and my Passport.
The first set of lines:
There was the line to get into the airport. (see my farewells to Cindy on the previous day) There was the line to get my stored luggage x-rays. There was the line to get my boarding pass. There was the line to go through immigrations. There was the line to go through cusstomes There was the line to get my carry on baggage scanned and myself metal detected. There was the line to board the plane.
As they would say in England, “I haven’t seen this many cues in a Billiard parlor.”
The only interesting thing in this set of lines was my magic bottle of water. As we were getting off the train on Saturday night, Cindy grabbed her unopened bottle of water and brought it with us for future consumption. It remained sealed until Sunday night, when she handed it to me and told me to take it on board.
I tried to refuse. There is a strict limit on the amount of baggage a person can bring on board. I had my large hard suitcase bulging, and a overstuffed duffel bag to be stored, and my extra large expanded computer case and my overflowing overnight bag to carry on. I thought they would not let me bring the water on.
Cindy pointed out that, at worst, I would have to throw out the water bottle. What did I have to lose?
Little did I realize that the water bottle contained magical properties--well, coincidental propersties anyway. Whenever I took a large drink from the bottle, the line I was in moved drastically forward.
This was most notable in the airlines boarding line. First class passengers have a line to themselves. It is a line much shorter than ours, and is often empty. When it was empty the ladies helping would pick a few lucky people to get waited on by the first class representatives, shortening the line for all.
Everytime I took a big long drink from my waterbottle, new people would leave my line. It was fun. Finally, with just one family in front of me, I took a big swig, and the nice lady tapped me on the shoulder and asked if I wanted to go next.
I goofed. I said yes. There was only one group in front of me where I was. There was one lady in the first class line. The first class line should have been quicker. I forgot that some first class people are not first class.
She was having trouble getting her credit cards approved, and getting the exact right seat on the plane she wanted. I spent ten long minutes waiting for her to get done. No matter how much water I drank, she wouldn’t budge. I would have been done in two minutes if I would have stayed in my place at the regular line.
By the time I got through all those lines my flight had already started boarding. My two hour safety window had been used entirely up.
My seat was near the back of the plane, which meant I got to board early. I climbed into my seat and tried to do my best to sleep. As the plane took off I looked out the window, trying my best to get one last glimpse of Dehli, and of India as we left. The dust and clouds that kept me from seeing the stars during my trip kept me from watching the city fade away.
The stewardess came on and showed us our emergency procedures. They played a video showing you the proper way to reduce the risk of strokes during long flights. (Sitting for too many hours sends all the blood to your feet. If you don’t move them occasionally, the blood can pool there and clot. Later that clot can move up to your head and cause a stroke. Flying is the safest form of travel?) Never once in the video did they use the words Stroke, Blood Clot, or Life Threatening.
I slept, on and off, as we headed over Pakistan, Afghanistan, and Tajakstan (or was it Aberjistan?) When they were not showing old “Home Improvement” episodes, or “Crocidile Hunter” episodes, they had the computer display our location on a map. My last Indian meal was served, a midnite snack of Indian Pizza Bread. There was also an Indian movie. I slept through it, only seeing part of the big dance number, and where the main romantic lead sneaks away for a cigarette break.
Mostly I was worried about my meeting in Amsterdam.
Since I had spent two weeks visiting friends that Cindy had discovered on the internet, it seemed only fitting to end my trip by meeting a new friend I had in Amsterdam. This Jatraquero will remain nameless for now. This would be my first face to face meeting with a Hatracker, and it would be theirs as well. We discussed procedure several times, and I double checked on our connection every chance I had on the computer in India.
However, I knew I would make a terrible impression on anyone I met. I haven’t bathed in twentyfour hours, and hadn’t had a good bath or shower in a week. I needed a shave and a reapplication of deodorant and my teeth needed brushing. I would scare away anyone wanting to talk to me, I was sure. The plane woke me by landing in Amsterdam. It had been a nine hour flight, but it was only 5:30am. My flight would leave from here at 3:00pm, so I was ready to see Amsterdam.
More Lines: Line to get off the plane Line to go through customs
I was lucky with these lines. First they decided to unload from the back of the plane, using a back door as well as the front. Secondly, customs in Amsterdam, for Americans, is almost a given. Finally, I got to avoid the luggage line. My luggage should go straight through to my transferred flight.
Once out of immigration there are sealed doors that open to waiting friends and family. My Hatrack buddy promises she would wait for me with a big banner saying “Dan Raven”. I looked.
No banner.
No sign.
Perhaps I was early, or late. I pulled out some paper from my computer bag and wrote “DAN RAVEN” on it, and held it up for all to see.
Noone seemed to care.
After thirty minutes of this, and watching two flights full of people meet their guests and leave, I decided to do a quick search of the Amsterdam airport.
There was a designated meeting area. It was empty.
This was beginning to remind me of my landing in Dehli. Nobody was waiting for me their either. Of course there I would have to spend two weeks stuck alone in a foreign country if no-one showed up. Here it was only a matter of a few hours.
The Amsterdam Airport is like a large shopping mall with both train and plane service added in. The only thing I couldn’t find was a movie theater. Well, I couldn’t find my friend either. I jumped on an international internet terminal and spent about $2.00 per minute to see if she had logged on and left any messages. There was nothing. I left one telling her where to find me if she showed up.
I then went back to the original meeting place and waited.
By 8:00am I realized something had come up and she wasn’t able to meet me. Either that, or she saw one look or got one sniff in my general direction, and headed for the nearest exit. My choices were to head out on my own and explore Amsterdam, or too hang around the airport.
My worry, if I found a comfortable bench in the middle of Amsterdam I’d fall asleep and miss my plane. The truth was I was tired, tired of exploring new places and worrying about getting home. There comes a time in any trip where the desire to get home overshadows the desire to be away. I was ready to go home. I pulled out my laptop, found a place with a relatively close electrical outlet, and started playing a bootlegged copy of Sim City that I was given in India.
I did tour the airport, finding nice place to eat and some good chocolate. I didn’t buy the chocolate. It was too tempting.
I stopped by a music/video store, in the airport, and was struck again about one thing I noticed about India. There was not Porn.
Or I didn’t find any. I wasn’t looking for it.
Yet in most places its hard to miss. There are all thes flashing lights and neon arrows showing you the way to cheap sexual thrills. Despite every other form on entreprenurial enterprise I saw going on in India, the closest thing I saw to pornography was a bookstore that sold a few Romance novels.
This compares to Amsterdam, where going down the aisles in the DVD section of the store reads, “Bach in Budapest”, “Beethoven By the Boston Pops”, “Between My Thighs starring Backdoor Betty.”
There were no bootlegged DVD’s in this store, unless you count the starlettes in the Adult films Leather section. Not that I spent a lot of time in that store looking at the adult films, leather section or any other seciton. I just thought bending in that position looked very uncomfortable.
More lines:
Line through Customs again. Line through security. Line to get to the boarding area (another Security check). Line to get on the plane.
My biggest advantage, when it came to these security checks, was the Indian Pajama suit I wore. It has only two pockets in the top, none in the pants, and goes well with sandals. There was no place for me to hide any metal, not to mention a gun or weapon. I waltzed through the security process each time I went through with only an aluminum gum wrapper ever setting anything off.
Those hours in Amsterdam passed and I was soon back on the plane. I waived goodbye to my Hatrack friend. I still don’t know if something important came up, or there was a miscommunications, or if we just wandered around the airport for a couple hours missing each other. Heck, we never even sent photo’s of each other back and forth, so I may have bumped into her and not known. She might have been next to me at the DVD store.
Anyway, the plane took off right on time. Everything was going perfect as far as the airlines were concerned. I had one more connection to make, and one more person to meet at an airport, and I would be home.
There are many places a person can enter the US. Most think of sailing by the Statue of Liberty. Other imagine landing at giant airports in Los Angeles or along the East Coast. My flight was going directly from Amsterdam to Memphis.
Yes, I would enter the US in Memphis. Why? I don’t know.
The flight over was very bumpy. Blame it on Bob. No, not that Bob. The Hurricane Bob. It blew into the Gulf and sent bad weather all up and down the gulf stream. We took a fifteen minute detour to get around the worst of it, and held on tight for the rest.
I slept through most of the flight anyway. It was bright and cheery on the plane, but I had a pair of sleeping covers to go over my eyes. For me it was dark, and the turbulance just rocked me to sleep.
Besided, the movie was “How to Loose a Guy In 10 Days”. It was the same movie I tried to miss on the way to Amsterdam.
The plane was crowded since this was the height of the European vacation season. The Stewardesses were kept busy distributing foods and drinks. I missed it all, but slept as much as I could. In a few hours I would be in the US! There they speak English mostly, eat greasy meaty foods, mostly, and have understandable television, mostly. I would be home!!!!!
We landed in Memphis. The pilot apologized for the weather delay. The stewardess told us where to go to pass through customs again.
I checked my ticket. I had a 1 hour and twenty minute layover until my final flight home, and fifteen minutes of that were gone. It took another ten minutes to get off the plane. I then flew down to customs.
Lines:
Line to get off the plane. Line to go through immigration. Line to get luggage. Line to go through customs Line to have luggage unloaded from the plane rescanned for contraband and explosives. Line to have my person and carry on bags scanned for contraband and explosives.
What really made this tense was the luggage bit. Normally at an airport one waits a good twenty minutes for your luggage to come up a conveyor belt. For US Customs our bags had to come up, we carry them to be inspected, and they go back down.
Mine didn’t come up.
I arrived quickly, racing through the other lines, but when I got to the luggage rack, mine didn’t arrive.
I feared I needed to do this in Amsterdam, and that my bags were stuck in some Netherland luggage Never-land.
In reality, since my luggage was the first to arrive to be loaded on our plane, they were the last to come off. I spent thirty nervous minutes watching bags not mine come tumbling down the ramp before finally, mine appeared.
By now the remaining lines were long, and the time to my flight was vanishing.
But I was not the worst off . Three families had already missed their flights, and got the thrill of sitting around Memphis for four hours waiting for the next one.
I was about to beg to be let in at the front of the line when the Airline personell informed me not to worry. My flight from Memphis to St. Louis was delayed two hours.
#$@#$@# BOB.
The good news, this left me with free time, and American food. When I finished with my customs duties I headed for Kentucky Fried Chicken and pigged out on greasy terrible unhealthy chicken wings.
What could I say, the line at the McDonalds was too long.
Back in the US, my cell phone worked again. I placed a call to my friend who would meet me at the airport. I let him know of the delay. I then called my parents and let them know I was OK.
They were panicing. Seems they thought I was arriving Sunday, not Monday. There were four messages on my answering machine, both at home and at work, demanding I call them before they started a search for me on the Indian mainland.
Two hours passed. This flight was filled mainly because BOB had caused the cancelation of the last two flights to St. Louis. People have been waiting twelve hours or longer to get a flight to St. Louis.
Travel time between St. Louis and Memphis is less than 6 hours by auto.
Line to get chicken. Line to get on plane.
We were informed as soon as we got on the plane that due to bad weather, we all needed to use the facilities now, or hold on to St. Louis. The weather was so turbulent that the stewardess and stewards would be seated for the duration, and their seats blocked the bathroom.
With that warning in hand, we left Memphis and I was almost home.
We landed without incident. The storms formed by Bob had blown away.
Line to get off the plane. Line to get luggage. NO MORE LINES!!!!!!
I pulled out my cell phone to call my friend to be picked up.
It was dead.
He was not there to meet me.
Great, three for three, nobody wants to meet me at an airport.
I went down to the luggage and began to wait. My friend showed up a minute later, laughing at my true Indian attire.
He drove me to my car, sitting in the parking lot of my workplace. We talked and I gave him a steady stream of India info that makes this thing look pulitzer worthy. He suggested I sleep at his place, but I refused. I was awake. I wanted to go home!!!!!
As I drove the remaining hour home did some thinking about this trip. I do not mean the scenes that I’ve written about here. I was trying to sum up my vacation, my whole Indian experience into a neat package.
I couldn’t.
A true adventure, according to “Hello Dolly” is something you dream about doing whenever you are sitting comfortably at home, and while doing, dream of nothing but sitting comfortably at home.
An epic adventure, according to my Washington University Proffesor of Classic Literature, is a story that begins at home, leaves as one enters ever more mythological settings, and returns home with the hero growning and changed in such a way that the home he returns to shines in a new and deeper light. It may not be the same place that he left, but definitely the hero is not the same person who left it.
A pilgrimage is a travel to seek a deeper understanding of God and of oneself spiritually. It is a duty owed to God or the Universe but mainly to ones self.
My trip to India was all of these and none of them.
I am no Frodo or Oddyseus or Aneas. I returned with no magic ring or founded no new empire. I did change. I did discover nasty little secrets about myself.
As the plane landed, flying over my work, settling comfortably down into oh so familiar and comfortable places I realized some things about me.
I am lazy. I like my comforts. I like control of my life where ever I can find it. I like my life in St. Louis. I love my house, and my dog, and my remote control, not neccesarilly in that order. I prefer eating the foods I like than trying foods that are new. I prefer reading about adventures than living them through. I prefer indoor plumbing, showers and baths, air conditioning and knowing how to say excuse me when I bump into someone. I like buying my daily bread without haggling over the price. I like all the comforts of home that I am used to, and want more.
If these selfish childish things makes me bad or evil, so be it.
I think they make me human.
I like Amit. I like Sanjay. I like their families, their parents and Sanjay’s children.
I like their neighbors and their friends.
I want to be better friends with them. And probably, in a few years, when the memories fade, and the bank account recovers, I will go back.
When I think of Sanjay’s mother, or Amit’s father asking me when I will return, I know I’ll go back. When I think of the road up to Mussurie, I know I won’t go back. What will I do? I do not know right now.
posted
Hello again. I'll do my best to give you all a true and accurate version of my India adventures. I am not the gifted writer that Dan is, but I do spell alot better. I was in India for a total of 5 weeks during this trip and 2 weeks on a previous one. I will give you the details and things by place, people, etc...because the other way would be very cumbersome and hard for me to separate by individual day. Hope you all enjoy reading this.
Posts: 7 | Registered: Aug 2003
| IP: Logged |
posted
Meow all. First I will explain how I met my Indian friends. I was working at a school where we taught immigrant and refugee adults English. I was a secretary for the school. I spoke to the students as much as I could, trying to get to know them and help them when I could. We were a non profit school and recieved alot of donations from the community. I loved going through the donations and giving the items to the teachers to use a bingo prizes for the students. They played word bingo, pictures, that type of thing...to help the students learn more. I also went through clothes donations and helped the teachers find their newest students and their families clothes that would fit. Out of the 800 students, atleast 600 new me on sight..couldn't remember my name, but they new me as the donation lady. I've always been fascinated with other cultures. I loved talking with the students--those who could actually speak English. The others, I tried to talk with. Many of the students felt like they were stupid because they couldn't speak English. I found out that many didn't like asking questions in class. I also had access to their test scores and noticed that these same ones didn't advance in levels like they should have and that test scores were always low. I decided to try one more thing to help them. I have a yahoo id..and there is a place there to post your interests. For mine I posted that I was interested in new cultures, religion, languages, mythology..etc. Within 2 weeks I had 15 people from almost as many countries wanting to chat with me. Wanting help with English and willing to teach me their languages. The most willing were those from Iran, Egypt and India. I liked that idea because alot of the students spoke either Persian. I then took a few phrases to the students at school and started asking them questions about Persian (Farsi). They realized that if a teacher type is asking them questions about their language, than maybe their teachers wouldn't think them stupid for asking questions. This is how I met my Indian internet friends. They were willing to teach me their culture in exchange for learning more about America and improving their English skills. I've known both gentlemen for almost 5 years and couldn't trust them more. They have been excellent friends, great hosts, very protective of me (and Dan) and I'm not sure what I would do if I lost either one.
Hope I haven't bored anyone yet. I'll work on the Indian food next. Yes...they have chocolate there..but they aren't too fond of the white chocolate, which I like best.
Posts: 7 | Registered: Aug 2003
| IP: Logged |
posted
One thing Cindy left out about the place she worked at. (The International Institute--Its been helping immigrants for well over 100 years. They may have helped your grandparents learn English)
I think they are a front group for the CIA.
They have refugee's in their classes from Cuba, Vietnam, Afghanistan, Pakistan, Iran, and other countries that the CIA has an interest in.
They may even have her working for them. Watch what you say. She may be watching us.
Posts: 11895 | Registered: Apr 2002
| IP: Logged |
posted
Despite popular belief, Indians do eat things besides curry, and not all curry is hot. Fruit is plentiful, even in the winter time. They make wonderful shakes, very relaxing in the extreme heat of India. They also have something called a lassi. Some lassi are made with sugar, while others include salt. I thought it strange to put salt in a shake. Given the heat of India, I have decided that its not a bad way to replenish the salt in ones body. I still don't like the salted lassi. Lassi..the best way I can describe it is...boiled milk, sugar and some other things all mixed up together. The top is skimmed off and that is what you drink. Indians don't seem to be to fond of white chocolate, I had a very difficult time finding any. Rice, noodles and breads are the main staples. One of my friends told me that the main staple, varies with the income level of the family. Noodles seem to be more expensive than rice. India's population is mostly Hindu--so..no beef on the menu. There are also many Muslims--so..that rules out alot of pork. I saw pork on 2 menus during my visit. Black pepper is a big thing. Every dish was totally covered in it. My friends were very good and had it withheld from any food ordered..or made at their homes. I love the wide variety of fruits, breads and dishes that the Indian culture provides. If your able to taste any of this cuisine, go for it. Restaurants will tone down the spices. For Americans in India, do not eat any fruit that is already peeled. The water in India is about as bad for our systems as Mexico. We just aren't used to it. I spent 7 weeks in India and much to the surprise of my doctor, family and friends--never got sick. I followed the advice of my Indian friends. 1..Don't drink the water. 2..Don't eat peeled fruit. 3..Don't eat food from little street vendors--go to hotel restaurants. They are alittle more expensive, but I felt worth it. 4. Avoid the fish in North India.
Posts: 7 | Registered: Aug 2003
| IP: Logged |
posted
Indian clothes are something wonderful. They are light and airy, very comfortable. Love the way they look and feel. For American's, the price there is very cheap. Shopping for them can be quite an experience. Ladies clothes are tailor made. Its fun and also nerve racking. My friend took me to a cloth wholesaler. There were rooms full of cloth to select from. Different colors, patterns, material. So many choices. It is best to go to the tailer before you pick out cloth. I found out the hard way that if you don't get a cloth the right size..you get to bring it back and find another. They don't get alot of Indian women with my build--muscled thighs. After you get the cloth, its time to go back to the tailors. Once at the tailors, you sit down and go through several books of designs. Different designs for pants..necklines..tops..everything. Its better than going to the dept. store. In the dept. store, you see clothes you like..and hate the colors. Or colors you love..but the size is too small. This way you get exactly what you want. It is interesting..in India, Pakistan, Afghanistan..these clothes are considered to be very sexy on women. I actually feel very feminine wearing them. In the USA...people see me in them and think that I am pregnant. This does have its advantages at times. My coworkers are getting used to them and are even interested in getting some of their own. Dan actually has a few of the men's suits..and they have a slimming effect on him. Very dashing.
Posts: 7 | Registered: Aug 2003
| IP: Logged |
Printer-friendly view of this topic
![[Big Grin]](biggrin.gif)
![[Wave]](graemlins/wave.gif)
![[Razz]](tongue.gif)
since I'm from the region (I'm from Sri Lanka - and if anybody's asking where's that? Then it's that little tear drop at the end of India ... and no, we are not part of India!! ![[Smile]](smile.gif)
![[The Wave]](graemlins/thewave.gif)
![[Cool]](cool.gif)
![[Kiss]](graemlins/kiss.gif)
![[ROFL]](graemlins/rofl.gif)
![[Hat]](graemlins/hat.gif)
